


Saruman of the Many Colors

by Dak



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Isengard, Orthanc - Freeform, Saruman Redeemed, gandalf the white - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 13:10:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14749499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dak/pseuds/Dak
Summary: Faced with utter defeat and offered a chance for redemption, Saruman falters.





	Saruman of the Many Colors

_Think well, Saruman! Will you not come down?'    A shadow passed over Saruman's face; then it went deathly white. Before he could conceal it, they saw through the mask the anguish of a mind in doubt, loathing to stay and dreading to leave its refuge.  For a second he hesitated, and no one breathed._

 

A look of consternation crossed Saruman’s face. His robes shifted their colours swiftly, flickering from red to green to blue to black and then grey. His mouth opened to speak and all present save Gandalf stiffened, remembering the silken words of equivocation spoken by the Lord of Isengard.

 

“I….”  Saruman's voice trailed off. The Wizard’s face was a storm of indecision, between desire for freedom and desperation for refuge. For a moment the entire Ring of Isengard was silent as its defrocked master pondered the crossroads at which he stood. The clear waters that surrounded the Tower of Orthanc rippled slowly, the midday Sun shining down on them, glinting brightly.

 

A light breeze wafted over the circle and washed over Orthanc, the cool clean air sweeping over Saruman, brushing aside his long white locks that fell to his shoulders.

 

And then the Wizard looked down at the callers at his door, his deep black eyes affixing on Gandalf.

 

“Turn aside?” Saruman's voice sounded puzzled, as if reflecting upon a difficult problem for which he could see no solution.

 

“Come down?” He continued in the same tenor. His face grew wan and fey and for a moment he almost seemed hopeful. Then his dark eyes swept over the Riders of Rohan that waited at the foot of the Tower, lingering on the King and Eomer.

 

His gaze hardened then and his face grew contemptuous.

 

  _'Will I come down?' he mocked. 'Does an unarmed man come down to speak with robbers out of doors? I can hear you well enough here. I am no fool, and I do not trust you, Gandalf. They do not stand openly on my stairs, but I know where the wild wood-demons are lurking, at your command.'_

_'The treacherous are ever distrustful,' answered Gandalf wearily._

_'But you need not fear for your skin. I do not wish to kill you, or hurt you, as you would know, if you really understood me. And I have the power to protect you. I am giving you a last chance. You can leave Orthanc, free – if you choose.'_

 

“Free?” Saruman echoed incredulously. His gaze darted towards the interior of Orthanc, visible through the open archway that led from the balcony. The indecision reappeared on his long face and for a moment he seemed to want nothing more than to depart the balcony and the parley. Then a measure of calm returned to his face and when he resumed his speech it was the low, melodious words of before, it's very sound a balm to the listener.

 

“Tell me, Gandalf my old friend. What do you mean by 'free'?  There are conditions, I presume?”

 

Gandalf stared up at Saruman, his deep blue eyes boring into the other Wizard’s face, searching deep into his erstwhile friend’s mind.

 

“Conditions there are, Saruman. But when I say 'free', I mean 'free': free from bond, of chain or command; to go where you will, even, even to Mordor, Saruman, if you desire.”

 

Gandalf looked as if he was going to say more, but then simply held his silence, keeping his piercing stare on the other.

 

Saruman met the White Wizard’s stare for long moments, matching Gandalf’s will with his own. Their eyes flashed and flickered as if they were exchanging silent speech. And then Saruman drew back abruptly.

 

“Protection?” He asked in incredulity, his voice dripping with disbelief.

 

“And how shall you protect me from the good King below, Gandalf the Grey. For you heard his crude and uncultured threats. He shall not have peace with me. Naught until I and all my works have perished!”

 

Gandalf threw a single glance to King Théoden who stood several feet to his left, but the King of the Mark said nothing, his fierce gaze still affixed on Saruman.

 

“I give you my word, Saruman. If you come down, your life shall be spared. And you shall be free!”

 

Saruman’s eyes flashed at the last word, and his hands shook, the hue of his flowing robes shimmering a light blue, as bright as the noontime sky.

 

“That is so very like you, Gandalf.  Kindness and condescension together, always mixed. But forgive me if I do not trust your words, Gandalf the Grey.”

 

Now Gandalf frowned and his piercing blue eyes shone coldly.

 

“Aye, Saruman, treachery has ruled your heart for many years now, longer than I first thought. But this is my last word on the matter.”

 

Gandalf drew up straighter and he flung back his grey cloak to reveal a blinding white light that shone from within him. His voice resounded with power and authority and echoed throughout the Ring of Isengard, echoing off broken rock and black adamant.

 

“Behold, I am not Gandalf the Grey, whom you betrayed. I am Gandalf the White, who has returned from death. You have no colour now and I offer you one last chance for salvation. Come down now and be free. Else you shall remain here, cowed and enslaved until the dark hands of the East stretch out to take you!”

 

Saruman cringed at the harsh words but he could not tear his gaze away from Gandalf, his eyes gazing in fascination at the radiance that shone forth from the White Wizard.

 

Gandalf gave Saruman a knowing look and drew back his grey cloak over his white vestments, shrouding their gleam once more.

 

“Well then,” Gandalf said in finality, “It seems you are at a crossroads, Saruman. Torn between the bright hope of freedom and the dark comfort of shelter. But my cares are many and my time is short, and thus I will wait no more. Make your decision now, or I shall take your dithering as nay.”

 

With that, the White Wizard began to turn away from Orthanc t, putting his back to the gleaming black door of the Tower.

 

“Wait!” Saruman cried out, his face a twisted mask of discord and fear.

 

Gandalf halted but did not turn around, merely staying his departure.

 

“I-I shall come down,” Saruman uttered quietly, with none of his former suaveness present in his voice.

 

Now Gandalf turned around to face Orthanc once more, his noble visage grave and brooding.

 

“Then hurry, come down at once. For I have wasted enough time here and must turn to more important matters.”

 

Saruman took one last look at Gandalf and then withdrew into the dark fastness of the Tower, disappearing from view.

 

For many long moments nothing happened, and Aragorn was leaning close to Gandalf to whisper a question when the tall heavy door of Orthanc began to move. A loud click sounded and with a ponderous creak the door swung open, revealing a dark foyer into which the bright light of the Sun shone, illuminating dark niches.

 

From out of the brooding darkness emerged Saruman the Many-Colored. Tall he remained, his noble face drawn and pinched, revealing fear and uncertainty. A great white cloak was thrown over his many-hued robes and he clutched his long heavy black staff with both hands. Stepping forward slowly, the Wizard crossed the threshold of Orthanc and came before Gandalf, who remained seated upon Shadowfax.

 

“I have come forth as requested,” Saruman said in a mellow voice than contained but a fraction of his former silkiness.

 

“I take it I am now free, as you had promised, Gandalf? Free to go wherever I choose, free of bond, of chain or command?”

 

“You are free,” Gandalf replied, surveying Saruman with an appraising look.

 

“Free to go where you will. But first you will surrender to me the Key of Orthanc.”

 

Saruman’s face contorted in shock and a flash of anger crossed his surprised visage. But then he mastered his rage and smoothened his tongue. Bowing in supplication, he dipped a long slim hand into the pocket of his robes and withdrew two great black keys of intricate shape, joined by a ring of steel. Holding them in his left hand, he held them out to Gandalf, who took them in a swift gesture.

 

A look of debate crossed the White Wizard’s face and then he turned and went to the Door of Orthanc. Pulling it shut, Gandalf slid the key into the lock and with a quick turn locked the door soundly. Depositing the Keys of Orthanc into a pocket of his own white robes, Gandalf turned back to Saruman.

 

“Well that’s done then,” he said with a satisfied look upon his face. He looked Saruman directly in the eye, “And now, Saruman, you will surrender to me your staff.”

 

Anger and disbelief mixed on Saruman’s face and he drew back from Gandalf in horror.

 

“Treachery!” he cried, “I see your true purpose now Gandalf!”

 

He raised his staff before him, “You are not content with the Keys of Orthanc. You would seek the Keys of Barad-dur itself. And aye the Crowns of the Seven Kings and the Rods of the Five Wizards!”

 

Gandalf simply looked weary in the face of Saruman’s vicious tirade and he sighed.

 

“I grant you freedom, Saruman. To go wherever you choose. But you have proved yourself to be treacherous and murderous, and thus you will give me your staff now. It shall be a pledge of your conduct, to be returned later, if you merit it.”

 

“Indeed,” Saruman bit out, “Later when you have purchased a pair of boots much larger than mine.”

 

Gandalf gave the livid Wizard a look of utter disgust.

 

“You have become a fool Saruman, an utter fool and yet a pitiable one. But my patience is at an end!”

 

He held out his left hand, “Give me your staff, Saruman. Now!”

 

His voice resounded with power and command and Saruman shrunk before it, his gaze dropping to the stone of Orthanc’s stairs. A single strangled growl emerged from the Many-Colored Wizard’s mouth. And then he looked up at Gandalf with a look of utter defeat and humility on his face. Wordlessly, he held out his staff to Gandalf in his right hand.

 

Reaching out, Gandalf took the heavy ebon rod in his left hand and pulled it towards him. For a moment Saruman refused to release the staff, his hand clutching it like a claw. Then Gandalf gave the black rod a single hard tug and Saruman released it, his hand going utterly slack.

 

Gandalf drew the staff to him and transferred it into his right hand, holding the long black shaft with his own white staff. Saruman watched him do so and as he did all the power and defiance seemed to flow out of the corrupt Wizard and he seemed to shrink, as if with the loss of his staff he had lost all his vigor and strength. A look of utter defeat appeared on his face and Saruman swayed on his feet, staggered backwards past Eomer and Théoden, clutching for a rail for balance.

 

But the stair of Orthanc had no such banister and the Wizard of Many Colors stumbled and tripped on his white overcloak and with a surprised cry went flailing down the stairs. Down he went, tumbling head over heels, his robes askew, flying off the stairs to land in a pool of water. Saruman fell further until he hit the last stair and splashed into the debris-strewn water that pooled at the base of the Tower.

 

In the filthy pool Saruman struggled to his feet, spluttering in utter dishevelment. The murky water had stained his pristine cloak badly and now the formerly white cloth was a dull dirty grey. He coughed and spat out muddy water and shook his sodden robes his dismay.

 

All of those present watched the disheveled Wizard without comment. And then Théoden descended the stairs of Orthanc, Eomer at his side. Gandalf watched their descent with concern and then headed after them, Aragorn following.

 

The King of the Mark came before the defrocked Lord of Isengard. Tall and lordly he appeared and he looked down at the fallen Wizard with fierce eyes.

 

“Saruman, you are a vile traitor,” he said with steel in his voice, “A corrupter of Men’s hearts and a foul servant of Mordor.” A ringing of steel pierced the still air and Théoden drew Herugrim, his legendary sword forth, the cold steel gleaming in the sunlight.

 

“And I have but one thing to give to the servants of Mordor.” He raised the sword in the air to strike and Saruman could do naught but watch, his mouth moving silently to form words but never making speech.

 

“Stay your stroke, Théoden King!” Gandalf cried, his voice carrying with it power and authority once more. Théoden halted; Herugrim held in both hands, it’s razor-sharp edge hovering mere feet from the bowed Saruman’s neck.

 

Théoden turned to face the White Wizard, his aged visage twisted with anger.

 

“Do not ask me to spare the life of this base traitor, Gandalf. Great your aid to the House of Eorl has been, but I will not allow Saruman the Vile to live, lest he wreak further ruin upon the Mark.”

 

Gandalf gave the King an understanding look.

 

“Your loss has been great, my lord. Yet our struggles are not over. The greater threat from the East remains. And it is against that threat that Saruman may yet be of great service yet.”

 

At these words Saruman looked up at Gandalf and understanding seemed to form in his dark eyes. But he remained silent, seemingly content to let his fellow Wizard barter with the King to spare his life.

 

“Saruman has done me and my people great injury,” Théoden rejoined, “I will not yield until I have his head.”

 

Gandalf’s blue eyes flashed and he descended the stairs in a movement so swift that those present barely saw him move. Stepping in between the King of the Mark and the fallen Wizard, Gandalf turned a stern look upon Saruman.

 

“Get up, Saruman. Come now, do not lie in the mud as a beast of burden. You are still a member of a high and most ancient order, or have you forgotten. Come, stand up and master yourself.”

 

With a visible effort, the Wizard of Many Colors managed to stagger to his feet, seemingly unable to refuse the command of the White Wizard. He shook his wet garments in an indecorous manner, trying to dry himself. Then the warm wind picked up again and blew over the sodden Wizard. Saruman wrung out his cloak as best he could and then suddenly his old pride seemed to reassert itself.

 

The tarnished Wizard drew himself up, stood tall and erect. Holding his head high, he gathered the tattered remains of his dignity and looked at Théoden without flinching.

 

“I do not contest your right to rule the Mark as you see fit, my lord,” Gandalf was saying, “But Saruman is of my Order. I have dealt with his misdeeds as is mandated by those that sent me, and I shall ensure that he shall not do you or your people any more injuries.”

 

Théoden gazed long and hard at Gandalf and then turned his harsh stare to the other Wizard, who stood there in knee-high water, his cloak dripping wet.

 

“Very well,” the King relented and sheathed his sword once more.

 

“But I hold you responsible for this Wizard’s actions henceforth, Gandalf. And if Saruman should do any more harm to me or mine, I shall not be persuaded to spare his wretched life a second time.”

 

Turning away from both Wizards, Théoden returned to his Men, Eomer following suit, but not before giving Saruman a single baleful glare.

 

Gandalf sighed in weariness.

 

“Trouble and more trouble come from your hands, Saruman,” he said.

 

“Yet your part in this tale is now over,” he continued, “You may go where you wish. But be warned. Should you engage in further evil I will not intervene to spare you again.”

 

With that Gandalf turned away from Saruman and waded through the water towards Shadowfax, Aragorn following without giving Saruman a single glance.

 

The Many Colored Wizard watched them go in silence, his dark eyes gleaming in thought.

 


End file.
